


Songs From Friday Afternoons

by late_night_writer



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Movie, F/M, Moonrise Kingdom - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-09
Updated: 2015-11-29
Packaged: 2018-04-30 18:25:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5174474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/late_night_writer/pseuds/late_night_writer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the summer of 1965, and twelve-year-old Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin decide to run away together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. September 2, 1965

**Author's Note:**

> The Moonrise Kingdom AU that literally no one asked for. I don't even know what kind of style this is supposed to be written in. Apologies if it gets boring. This is just something quick and fun for me to write, so enjoy. Disclaimer: Most of the dialogue as well as other things are taken directly from the movie and do not belong to me in any way.

_September 2, 1965_

    On Ark  Island, it has rained for the entire day, and is only just beginning to let up. On the hillside to the West of the island, the ocean is nearly invisible through the misty rain. Through the rain on that hillside is the house known as Summer’s End. It is home to the Griffin family: Jake, Abby, and their only daughter Clarke. All three have been inside since the rain began.

    Clarke sits cross-legged in the high window of the third story, peering out the window through a pair of junior binoculars. She does this quite regularly—she’s never seen without them; they’re always hanging from her neck or up against her eyes. She watches through her binoculars as the rain finally slows to a stop, and the mail truck bumbles up to the mailbox and deposits the mail. She lowers her binoculars. This is what she’s been waiting for. She sits up, letting the binoculars fall against her chest, and picks up a shoe box labeled ‘PRIVATE’.

    Clarke carries the box down the stairs and out of the house. She goes to the mailbox, opening it and taking out the letters inside. She sets them on top of the box, flipping through them until she finds the one she’s looking for: a letter from her pen pal. Clarke smiles to herself, placing the other letters back in the mailbox, and carrying hers over to the bus stop as to read it privately. She sits at the bus stop, carefully undoing the seal of the envelope and removing the letter. Her eyes scan the paper, her expression settling on seriousness, before she folds the letter back up, opens the shoebox, and places it inside.

* * *

     _This is the island of Ark. Sixteen miles long. Forested with old-growth pine and maple. Criss-crossed by shallow tidal creeks. Treikrew territory. There are no paved roads but instead many miles of intersecting footpaths and dirt trails and a ferry that runs twice daily from Stone Cove. The year is 1965. We are on the far edge of Black Beacon Sound, famous for the ferocious and well-documented storm which will strike from the east on the sixth of September—in four days time._

* * *

     Meanwhile, at Camp Walden, Scout Master Sinclair is running through routine inspections with his Troop members. A Scout named Wick follows Scout Master Sinclair around with a small, spiral-bound notepad. He continuously makes notes as Scout Master Sinclair checks with all the Scouts. Scout Master Sinclair lights a cigarette, holding it up to his mouth.

    “Miller—latrine inspection,” Sinclair announces, approaching a dark-skinned boy with short-cropped hair. Miller pulls a series of ropes, complying to Scout Master Sinclair’s order. A bucket tips down a chute, emptying the water from the bucket and causing a yellow flag to pop up on the side. Scout Master Sinclair nods in approval, and then continues on.

    “Wells, how’s that lanyard coming?” he asks as he passes the boy.

    “Terrible.” Wells holds up a brutally knotted brown and yellow cord with a rabbit’s foot attached at the end of it. Wick makes note of this.

    Wick and Scout Master Sinclair continue on through the clearing, approaching a large pile of lumber near a thin-trunked tree. A blond-haired boy approaches the two of them, carrying logs in his arms.

    “Sterling. What’s all this lumber for?”

    “We’re building a tree house,” the boy answers cheerily.

    “Where?”

    “Right here.”

    Scout Master Sinclair, Wick, and Sterling look upwards at the thin-trunked tree. A tree house sits at the very top, swaying slightly in the breeze.

    “That’s not a safe altitude,” Scout Master Sinclair criticizes. “Why is it up so high? If somebody falls, it’s a guaranteed death!”

    “Well, where would you build it?” Sterling asks.

    Scout Master Sinclair pauses. “Lower!”

    Sterling bows his head as both Scout Master Sinclair and Wick walk away. Dejected, he drops his armful of logs onto the pile. Wick makes note of the tree house as he and Scout Master Sinclair leave. The two of them stop as they walk along the edge of a wooden fence.

    “Atom, what are you doing?” Scout Master Sinclair addresses a boy crouching in front of an ant hill, holding a flaming stick and a small container of lighter fluid.

    “Pest control,” the boy answers over his shoulder. “Burning some ants.”

    “Spot check.” Scout Master Ward and Wick approach the boy, who stands in his place in front of the ant hill. He is still holding the burning stick and lighter fluid. “Your socks are down, your shirt-tails are untucked, your trousers are not properly pressed. You are reported for uniform violation!” Wick makes note of this, and Scout Master Sinclair veers around the boy’s flaming stick as he continues on.

    Scout Master Sinclair stops at a workbench where two boys are sitting. On the booth are a dozen or so rockets. A sign on the table reads ‘No Smoking’; Scout Master Sinclair holds his cigarette away at arm's-length.

    “How many rockets you up to, Jasper?” he asks.

    “Sixteen-and-a-half, sir,” he answers.

    “That enough for the Hulabaloo?” The question is directed at Wick, who shakes his head. Scout Master Sinclair turns to the second boy at the table. “Monty, go fetch another pint of gunpowder from the armory shed—Murphy, halt!” Sinclair quickly leaves the workbench and goes over to a boy on a motorbike. “I saw that. How fast were you just going?”

    “Safety test, sir,” Murphy answers.

    “Come again?”

    “The vehicle appears to be in working order. I’m just checking if—”

    Scout Master Sinclair looks at him angrily. “Reckless cycling. Second warning. Next time I take away the keys.” Wick writes this down as he follows Scout Master Sinclair to a long picnic table. Wick takes a seat to Scout Master Sinclair’s left, while Scout Master Sinclair smokes his cigarette and reads from a magazine as the boys report for breakfast. He stops, looking over to see an empty chair next to Wick. To no one in particular, he asks, “Who’s missing?”

    The Scouts murmur amongst themselves, one name making itself clear—Blake. “Blake,” one of the Scouts answers, and Scout Master Sinclair sighs, leaning away from the table.

    “Blake! Breakfast!” Silence. No one from the tents stirs. Scout Master Sinclair rises from the table and makes his way over to the tents. The one on the very end is zipped shut. He knocks on it, asking, “Blake, you in there?” He gets no answer. The rest of the Scouts have followed him over to the tents and are waiting for the boy. “Bellamy?” Scout Master Sinclair asks, softly. He looks down at the tent’s flaps, and then turns to Wick.

    “It’s zipped from the inside,” he announces. He removes a wooden handled pocket-knife from his pocket, and uses a thin hooked tool to unzip the tent. The other Scouts push the flaps to the side and peer into the tent. There are a few maps hung up in the tent, though the cot is unslept in. His things are missing. Bellamy is nowhere to be seen.

    Scout Master Sinclair enters the tent. He sees an envelope labeled ‘Scout Master Sinclair’ tucked slightly underneath Bellamy’s pillow. He plucks it out from underneath the pillow, and looks around the tent. He notices that one of the maps in placed noticeably lower than the others, and upon removing it, finds a neatly cut hole in the side the size of a basketball. Scout Master Sinclair turns to the other Scouts, dumbfounded.

    “Jiminy Cricket. He flew the coop.”

* * *

 **Captain Kane:** Hello, this is Captain Kane. Over.

 **Scout Master Sinclair:** Captain Kane this is Sinclair over at Camp Walden. Over.

 **Captain Kane:** Morning, Sinclair. What can I do for you? Over.

 **Scout Master Sinclair:** I’m not sure exactly. I’ve got an escaped Khaki Scout. Over.

 **Captain Kane:** What does that mean? Over.

 **Scout Master Sinclair:** One of my boys seems to have stolen a miniature canoe, some fishing tackle, ten pounds of sundries, two bedrolls, plus an air rifle—and disappeared. Over.

 **Captain Kane:** Any idea why? Over.

 **Scout Master Sinclair:** No—he left me a letter of resignation. Over.

* * *

_Dear Scout Master Sinclair,_

   _I am very sad to inform you that I can no longer be involved with the Khaki Scouts of North America. The rest of the troop will probably be glad to hear this. It is not your fault._

 _Best wishes,  
_ _Bellamy Blake_

* * *

 **Captain Kane:** Well, I guess we better notify his folks. Over.

 **Scout Master Sinclair:** Okay. Over and out.

* * *

    Later that same day, both Captain Kane and Scout Master Sinclair sit with a woman at an operator’s switchboard in the Ark Island Mail Office. The woman sitting at the operator’s switchboard is waiting for a call, eating a sandwich while she does so. The switchboard buzzes, and she sets the sandwich down to plug a few cords into the switchboard. She lifts a headset to her ears and speaks into it.

    “Hello, Diane.”

    “Becky, I have your person-to-person from Chesterfield,” the operator speaks into the headset.

    “Hold the line, please.” Becky presses a switch on the switchboard and attempts to get through. Both Captain Kane and Scout Master Sinclair put on headsets of their own.

* * *

 **Mr. Sorenson:** Hello?

 **Captain Kane:** Hello sir, this is Captain Kane.

 **Mr. Sorenson:** Yes, sir, I received your message. Thank you very much. In fact, we’ve come to a decision as a family because this is only the most recent incident involving Bellamy’s troubles, and it’s just not fair to the others, so, unfortunately—we can’t invite him back, at this time.

 **Captain Kane:** There’s no cause for alarm, sir. We’ll find him. We’re simply notifying you as a matter of protocol and so on.

 **Mr. Sorenson:** I understand that. I’m notifying you of the situation on my end.

 **Captain Kane:** I’m confused by that statement. You can’t invite him back?

 **Mr. Sorenson:** I’m afraid not. He’s a good boy, he’s got a good heart, but it’s just not fair to the others, you see. He’s emotionally disturbed.

 **Captain Kane:** Am I speaking to Bellamy’s father?

 **Mr. Sorenson:** No, sir. Bellamy’s parents passed away a number of years ago. We’re Mr. and Mrs. Sorenson. We’re foster parents. Bellamy’s been with us since last June.

 **Scout Master Sinclair:** Uh, excuse me, sir, this is Scout Master Sinclair speaking. Are you implying that Bellamy is an orphan?

 **Mr. Sorenson:** Well, it’s a known fact. Of course he is.

 **Scout Master Sinclair:** Well, why the hell doesn’t it say so in the register? Excuse my language.

 **Mr. Sorenson:** I don’t know. What register? We sent him a letter, it should reach you presently.

 **Captain Kane:** Mr. Sorenson, I’ve got an escaped Khaki Scout. We’re notifying you as a matter of protocol. You say you can’t invite him back? You say that he’s an orphan? I don’t understand how that works! Wh—What am I supposed to do with him?

 **Mr. Sorenson:** That’s up to Social Services. They’ll be in touch with you. They’ll look after Bellamy. Good luck to you

* * *

     Back in the Ark Island Mail Office, Becky unplugs the cords, leaving Scout Master Sinclair and Captain Kane sitting dumbfounded about their current situation.

* * *

     At Camp Walden, Scout Master Sinclair has taken it upon himself to organize a search party for Bellamy. He talks to the Scouts as they walk through camp. “You have your orders. Use the orienteering and path-finding skills that you’ve been practicing all summer. Let’s find our man, and bring him safely back to camp. Remember, this isn’t just a search party, it’s a chance to do some first-class scouting. Any questions?”

    Everyone raises their hands. Scout Master Sinclair looks around, before facing forward once again. “Finn,” he says.

    “What’s your real job, sir?” the boy asks.

    “I’m a math teacher. Why?”

    “What grade?”

    “Eighth.”

    “Do you need a PhD for that?”

    “Finn,” Scout Master Sinclair comes to a halt once they reach the entrance to the camp. “No, but you know what, we’re actually in the middle of something here, in case you didn’t notice. One of our Scouts is missing and it’s a crisis. Anybody else?” A handful of boys raise their hands. “Murphy.”

    “What if he resists?” Murphy asks.

    “Who?” Scout Master Sinclair asks.

    “Blake. Are we allowed to use force on him?”

    “No, you’re not. This—this is a _non-violent rescue_ operation. Our mission is to find him, not to hurt him. Under any circumstances. Am I making myself understood?”

    Mumbling comes from the Scouts that lets Scout Master Sinclair know he’s making himself understood. “Good.” Scout Master Sinclair begins to walk away before turning back around and speaking to the Scouts. “I’m going to change my answer. This is my real job. Scout Master, Troop 55. Math teacher on the side. Be leery out there, okay? Let’s get started. Who’s got Snoopy?”

    “Right here,” Sterling answers, crouching next to a Russell Terrier.

    Scout Master Sinclair turns to face the boy. “Give him the scent.”

    Sterling pulls a sock out of a bag; something Bellamy had forgotten during his escape. Sterling offers up the sock to Snoopy.

* * *

     A group of Scouts sit in a circle, discussing the circumstances of Bellamy’s escape.

    “I heard he ran away because his family died,” Finn says, turning to the boy next to him.

    “I heard he never had any family in the first place,” Wick says.

    “Probably why he’s crazy,” Miller says.

    “I’ll tell you one thing: if we find him, I’m not gonna be the one who forgot to bring a weapon,” Murphy says.

    Atom scoffs. “Me, neither.”

* * *

     The Scouts walk along, each of them carrying different weapons, despite Scout Master Sinclair being clear not to harm Bellamy in any way. Scout Master Sinclair takes Wick out with him on a boat, both of them scanning the waters for any sign of Bellamy.

    Meanwhile, Captain Kane goes door to door across the island with a picture of Bellamy from his register. He shows it to several elderly couples and groups of children, passing the photo between their faces individually so they can get a good look at it. Finally, he reaches Summer’s End, and hands the picture of Bellamy over to Mr. and Mrs. Griffin.

    “Camp Walden? That’s all the way over on the other side of the island. You really think a twelve-year-old boy could row this far in a miniature canoe?” Mr. Griffin questioned.

    “Most likely not,” Captain Kane answered.

    “It _is_ possible, Counsellor,” Mrs. Griffin said.

    “I disagree, Counsellor. It would take him three days at least.”

    “I don’t think so. Two days, maximum.”

    “Well, I’m not gonna argue about it.”

    “Be that as it may, will you let me know if you see anything unusual?” Captain Kane interjects. Mrs. Griffin hands the photo of Bellamy back to Captain Kane, and both she and Mr. Griffin head back into their house. Captain Kane leaves the house in his police cruiser, and Mrs. Griffin heads outside to the clothing line. Behind two sheets is a bicycle, concealed from view. She drops her basket of clothes, and follows not far behind the police cruiser.

    From the top of her house, Clarke watches the police cruiser slow to a stop across the way through her binoculars, her blond hair blowing in the wind. Captain Kane exits his car, and wanders over to a bench near where he parked. He sits down, lighting a cigarette. Shortly after, Clarke sees her mother ride up to the bench on her bicycle. She stops and talks to Captain Kane, and then reaches for his cigarette, which he takes from his mouth and hands to her. She takes a puff of the cigarette, and then hands it back. Clarke lowers her binoculars curiously. She sees Captain Kane grab her mother’s hand briefly, before her mother turns the bicycle around and heads home.

* * *

  _Scout Master’s log. September second. First day of search party for Bellamy Blake. Morale is extremely low. In part, I suppose, because Bellamy is the least popular Scout in the troop. By a significant margin. I’m confused, and I’m worried… please let us find him tomorrow. Please don’t let him fall off a cliff or… drown in a goddamned lake or something. Terrible day at Camp Walden. Let’s hope tomorrow’s better._

 


	2. September 3, 1965

_September 3, 1965_ **  
**

    A freckle-faced twelve-year-old boy with a mop of curly black hair is rowing down a stream in a miniature canoe, humming to himself. Bellamy Blake. His canoe bumps along the rocks, causing the air rifle to shift in its place, but it doesn’t fall into the stream. Eventually, he docks his canoe and pulls it farther onto land. He looks at it, hands on his hips, head tilted to the side. It’s painted bright yellow and blue—too obvious. He grabs handfuls of leaves and scatters them over the canoe in hopes to camouflage it. It covered the top, but left the sides exposed.

    After thinking about it, he went off to find some branches to conceal the sides of the canoe from view. He drags two branches back to the canoe and lays them over the sides before stepping back and admiring his handiwork. Then, he notices the ‘55’ flag sticking out the back. He walks over and yanks it from the canoe. Instead of lying it in the foliage, he takes it with him, leaving less of a trail for anyone to follow.

    He walks a significant way away from the canoe before laying out his map and making himself a drink with the powdered Tang he’s brought along. He examines a compass, determining which direction he’ll go before packing up the map, downing his drink, and heading for the meadow.

    Clarke watches through her binoculars as Bellamy walks through the long grass. He’s looking around, the grass up to his chest. He stops once he sees her. They are standing across the meadow from one another, each watching the other. Bellamy is smoking a pipe, which he takes from his mouth to blow the collected smoke from his lungs. They stare at one another. **  
**

* * *

  _One Year Earlier_

    At the Church of Arcadia, Bellamy is sitting in the audience with the rest of his Junior Khaki Scout troop, boredly watching the Noye’s Flude play. He looks around, and once he’s sure no one’s watching him, exits the pews and wanders out of the church. Outside of the church, children are in costumes, depicting two of each animal that was brought upon the Ark. He slides past them, not wanting to disturb them, and not wanting his Scout Master to be notified of his leaving.

    Bellamy makes his way to a separate part of the church, looking around to make sure there are no adults watching him. He passes a group of kids playing recorders, stopping only to drink from the water fountain. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand before continuing on down a hallway. There’s a sign next to the hallway which reads ‘Dressing Rooms’. With his thumbs in his pockets, he makes his way to the very end of the hallway, where he can see racks of clothes and faintly hear girls’ voices.

    Out of curiosity, Bellamy enters the room and steps through the rack of clothes. He sticks his arms through a second, parting the clothes to reveal six girls dressed as birds sitting in front of a dressing room mirror. Bellamy brings his fist up to his mouth, clearing his throat. All six of them turn around in their chairs. The one in the middle is beautiful; she has blond hair and is wearing an all black costume. Her blue eyes look at him coldly as he addresses her.

    “What kind of bird are you?” he questions.

    Instead, the girl next to her answers. “I’m a sparrow, she’s a dove—”

    “No,” he interrupts. “I said, what kind of bird are you?” he points to the blond haired girl.

    She pauses a moment before answering him. “I’m a raven.”

    “Boys aren’t allowed in here,” the sparrow girl tells him.

    “I’ll be leaving soon,” he assures. His eyes fall to the blond girl’s hand. It is wrapped in bandage, and the blood has bled through it. “What happened to your hand?”

    “I cut it on the mirror,” she answered.

    “Really,” he says. “How did that happen?”

    “I lost my temper at myself.” Bellamy nodded slowly at her. “What’s your name?” she asked.

    “Bellamy. What’s yours?”

    “I’m Clarke.” Bellamy nodded again, not taking his eyes off of Clarke.

    “It’s not polite to stare,” said the sparrow girl.

    Seconds later, the dressing room door opened. A woman named Mrs. Lynn entered the room. “Birds! Ready?” she noticed Bellamy, turning towards him. “Who are you? Where did you come from? Go back to your seat,” Bellamy darted back between the clothes he’d parted, exiting the dressing room.

    While everyone left the dressing room, Clarke and a girl dressed as an owl stayed. Clarke turned to the girl.

    “He likes you,” the girl had said.

    Later after the performance was over and Bellamy was on the bus to leave, one of the birds from the dressing room delivered a message on a sheet of paper to him. It was handed back over the rows, and written on the back of a flyer for the play he’d just seen. Bellamy unfolded the paper, and written on it in red felt pen, was:

    _WRITE TO ME_

_Clarke Griffin_

_Summer’s End_

_Ark Island_

* * *

     Back in the meadow, Bellamy and Clarke are still looking at one another. “Were you followed?” he finally asks.

    Clarke looked around behind her before turning back to Bellamy. “I doubt it,” she answered.

    “Good,” he said, and started making his way towards Clarke. She picks up her things and meets him in the middle. Once they reach the meeting point, Bellamy holds out a fistful of daisies. “For you,” he says, somewhat sheepishly. He’d picked them on his way to the meadow.

    “Oh. Thank you,” she says, smiling and taking the flowers.

    “Can you read a map?” Bellamy asked, digging in his pocket until he found the map of the island and pulled it out. He unfolded it, holding it towards Clarke.

    “Yeah,” she answered.

    “I feel we should go halfway today and halfway tomorrow, since you’re a less experienced hiker, and you’re also wearing Sunday-school shoes.”

    “Okay,” she said, nodding.

    “Here’s where we are right now.” Bellamy pointed to a spot in the map. “I’d like to pitch camp here by sixteen-hundred—which means four o’clock. How’s that sound?” He pointed to the new place while he talked, and then turned to look at Clarke.

    “Fine,” she says.

    “You want some beef jerky?” he offers, refolding the map.

    “Okay.”

    Bellamy took a handful of beef jerky out of his other pocket, offering some of it out to her. She grabbed one, and then the two of them started on their way.

* * *

     “Are you thirsty?” Bellamy asked after a while, while they were crossing a stream.

    “No,” Clarke answered.

    “Well, if you do get thirsty, I learned that if you stick some pebbles in your mouth and suck on them, it’ll quench your thirst with the spit, supposedly.”

* * *

    “Sometimes I stick leaves under my hat. It cools your head down,” Bellamy said, lifting up his coonskin cap to show Clarke the leaves in his hair.

    “That’s a good idea. It might also help if you didn’t wear a fur hat,” she pointed out.

    Bellamy hesitated. “True, but this adds to the camouflage.”

* * *

    “Here’s a trick. If you throw pine needles in the air, you can see which way the wind’s blowing.” Bellamy picked up a handful of pine needles, and tossed them in the air. They floated back to the ground, drifting vaguely.

    “Which way?” Clarke asked, confused.

    Bellamy shrugged. “I guess it doesn’t really matter, as long as we cover our tracks.”

* * *

     Bellamy and Clarke sat crouched behind a tree, watching a deer drink from a stream through Clarke’s binoculars. “He knows someone’s watching him,” Clarke commented, not taking her eyes off the deer.

    “I agree. Why do you say that?” Bellamy whispered.

    “I don’t know. I think he can just feel us.” Clarke kept her eyes on the deer, before turning her gaze to several others about twenty feet away from the first.

* * *

     “You smell like perfume,” Bellamy commented as he knelt over in a stream, picking up pebbles for the two of them to suck on.

    “Oh. It’s my mother’s,” she said, and he looked up to nod in approval. He stood up, handing her a few pebbles. Both of them put the pebbles in the mouths, swishing them around. The pebbles clacked against their teeth uncomfortably. Bellamy grimaced, spitting out the pebbles. He looked over at Clarke and shrugged.

    “I also brought water.”

* * *

     Finally, the two stop to set up camp. All of their belongings are arranged around a small yellow tent. Bellamy is currently hammering a stake into the ground, while Clarke sits on a rock a few feet away, an open book spread over her lap. “How strong of a swimmer are you?” Bellamy asks as he’s nailing the peg into the ground.

    “Pretty strong. I broke our school record for the backstroke,” Clarke says. She looks up only to answer Bellamy’s question before returning her attention to the book, slowly flipping the page.

    “Okay, well, I’m not that strong of a swimmer so I wear a life preserver.” Bellamy hammered into the stake one final time before setting the hammer aside. He stops to admire his handiwork, and nods. He stands from his spot and heads over to his things. Along with the things he’s swiped from Camp Walden, he’s brought along two life preservers. He picks up one, placing it over his head before tying the straps in a neat bow. He tilts his head, nods, then picks up the second life preserver and carries it over to Clarke.

    Clarke looks up from her book. She sees a pair of brown eyes peeking just above an orange life preserver. It takes her a moment to realize that he wants her to put it on. She closes the book and sets it aside before standing up. Bellamy places the life preserver over Clarke’s head, before tying the straps for her. Clarke fixes her hair after Bellamy lowers his hands, flipping it out from underneath the life preserver.

    “Why do I need this?” she asks.

    “Just in case,” he says. “We’re gonna try and catch some dinner.”

    Shortly after, both Bellamy and Clarke were crouched by the edge of a stream. Clarke was perched on a rock, holding a fishing pole that had been cast near the edge of the stream. Bellamy was holding a net, and poking around in the mud of the creek. He turned to Clarke. “Watch out for turtles. They’ll bite you if you stick your fingers in their mouths.”

    “Okay,” Clarke said.

    “I think there’s one right here,” Bellamy said, leaning forward to peer into the water. “I’m gonna try and catch it.” Bellamy tipped the next, and dragged it along the muddy floor of the creek. before bringing it up above the surface. Inside the net, there was a wriggling turtle. Bellamy brought the net towards himself, and reached inside it to grab the turtle’s shell. It moved like it was trying to swim away.

    Bellamy held the turtle flipped on its back, looking at it’s yellow and black stomach. “Somebody wrote on him,” he said. On the turtle’s stomach, written in red magic marker, was the name ‘Albert’.

    The fishing pole bounced in Clarke’s hands. “It’s—it’s moving,” she said, cranking at the reel.

    “You’ve got one!” Bellamy said, a smile spreading across his face. He turned and gently set the turtle back in the water. He stood up, raising his arm up in the air, announcing: “Fish on hook!” He turned to Clarke. “Reel it in, _slowly_.”

* * *

     Bellamy and Clarke sat by their campfire, Bellamy frying the fish Clarke caught on a cast-iron skillet. He tossed the fish, flipping it in the skillet, before continuing to fry it over the fire. Once he thought it was finished, he stopped, picking up the fried fish on a spatula and offering some of it to Clarke. Clarke takes some, and Bellamy places the rest on a tin plate.

    “It’s very good,” Clarke says. “You know a lot about camping, don’t you?”

    “I’m a Khaki Scout. It’s what I’m trained for,” he said, poking around at his half of the fish. “Anyway, I used to be.” Bellamy looks over at Clarke, and notices she has a different book sitting next to her than the one she was reading earlier. “What all did you bring? Maybe me can make an inventory.”

    “Okay,” Clarke said, setting her tin plate aside and grabbing her book. Bellamy followed her over to her yellow suitcase, which she positioned in front of her and opened up. Bellamy removed a small spiral-bound notepad from his back pocket, along with a pencil. Clarke waits patiently as Bellamy gets ready to write.

    “Go ahead,” he said.

    The first thing Clarke removed from her suitcase was a portable record player with a blue lid. She displays it to Bellamy like a salesman. “This is my record player. It works with batteries. Actually, it’s technically all of ours, but I use it the most. Do you like music?”

    Bellamy nods, making note of the record player in his notepad. The next thing Clarke pulls out of her suitcase is a leather folder. Inside, there are three L.P. records. She grins as she removes the first one.

    “This is my favorite record album. My grandmother gave it to me for my birthday. She lives in France.” Clarke ran her hand along the bottom of the record case, and Bellamy nodded, making note of the French title. The rest of the items in the suitcase are hardback novels. No other items of any kind are in the suitcase—including clothes. “These are my books. I like stories with magic powers in them. Either in kingdoms on earth or on foreign planets. Also, time travel, if they make it realistic. Usually, I prefer a girl hero, but not always. I couldn’t bring all of them because it got too heavy. You can borrow any you want.”

    “Thank you,” Bellamy says. Clarke took the books out of the suitcase one by one, and Bellamy makes note of each of the titles.

    “I also brought my lefty scissors because I’m left handed, some rubber bands, extra batteries, my toothbrush, and my binoculars, as you know. I forgot my comb, but I’ll use my fingers.” Bellamy nods, quickly jotting down the items before setting the notepad aside and picking up one of Clarke’s books.

    “Wait,” he says. “These are all… library books. In my school you’re only allowed to check out one at a time. Some of these are going to be overdue.” Clarke looked at the ground, nervously chewing her lip. Bellamy noticed. “Did you steal?” he asked. Clarke met Bellamy’s gaze for only a moment before looking away and shrugging. “Why? You’re not poor.”

    “I might turn some of them back in one day. I haven’t decided yet. I know it’s bad,” she tells him, rearranging them slightly so they’re neater. “I think I just took them to have a secret to keep. Anyway, for some reason it makes me feel in a better mood sometimes.”

    Bellamy blinked, thinking about this. “Are you depressed?”

    Once again, Clarke breaks his gaze and shrugs.

    “How come?” he asks.

    “Well… I can show you an example if you’d like. But it doesn’t make me feel very good.” Clarke reached over and pulled something out of her red handbag. Bellamy craned his neck to get a look at it before she showed him. “Anyway, I found this on the top of our refrigerator.”

    Clarke held up a thin pamphlet titled ‘Coping with the Very Troubled Child’. It took Bellamy a second to register what the book was saying. “Does that mean you?” he asked, and Clarke nodded. Bellamy laughed; only once, because Clarke? A troubled child? It was ridiculous. Clarke glared at him with cold blue eyes.

    “It’s not funny,” she said. Suddenly, she tossed the book down and slammed the lid to her suitcase shut before standing up. She looked down at Bellamy, her face expressionless. “You really know how to make friends.” She walked away from him and into the tent, zipping it shut. After that, it was silent.

    Bellamy sat for a minute before following her to the tent. He unzipped it, pushing the flaps aside to find Clarke sitting with streaks of tears down her cheeks. She glared at him when he unzipped the tent. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

    “It’s okay,” she sniffed. “I forgive you.”

    “I’m on your side.” Bellamy crawled into the tent, and Clarke scooted over.

    “I know,” she said, blinking back more tears. Bellamy untied his neckerchief and held it out to her. She took it, and dabbed her eyes.

    “I don’t think you’re a troubled child,” he offered. “And if they do, then they’re wrong.”

    “Thanks,” she said, sniffing again, and handing back the neckerchief. After a short period of silence, Bellamy asked:

    “Which one’s the best?”

* * *

     _“His eyes downcast, his kingdom in ruins, Mynar pressed his heavy paw through the rippling surface of the cool shallows and down to its stone floor. ‘My people once were lead by a great and noble beast—and I no longer see his face in this reflection.’”_

    Clarke read aloud from one of her books. It’s titled ‘The Francine Odyssies’. She’s sitting cross-legged in front of the fire, and Bellamy lies on his side on one of the bedrolls, his pipe still in his mouth. Clarke looks over at him, and stops reading. Bellamy’s asleep. After a moment, she gently reaches over and takes the pipe from his mouth before tipping the ashes into the campfire. She draws a blanket over him before continuing:

    _“Meanwhile, on the plains of Tabitha, Francine rested. There would be another time for war.”_

* * *

    In the house on Summer’s End, Mrs. Griffin is calling for her daughter. She leans over the railing of the stairway. “Clarke! Dinner! I’m not going to say it again!” she yells it at the top of her lungs as to be heard. Silence. By now, her daughter would usually come silently bounding down the staircase, binoculars hung around her neck. Mrs. Griffin turns away from the staircase, confused.

    “Jake,” she calls. “When’s the last time you saw Clarke?”

    “Uh,” Mr. Griffin responds from the other room. “I don’t know. Early this morning, maybe?”

    Mrs. Griffin considers this. Usually, her daughter is somewhere in the house with her binoculars pressed to a window. Mrs. Griffin goes up the stairs and down the hallway, peering into rooms but seeing no sign of her daughter. She checks all her favorite places, even venturing to the roof, where Clarke would occasionally go to be alone and watch things.

    In a last ditch attempt to find her, she heads to Clarke’s room. When she gets there, she finds almost all the books gone, along with the record player and Clarke’s favorite record. The realization dawns on her. She rushes out of her daughter’s room and to the staircase.

    “Jake! Where the hell are you?” she calls.

    Mr. Griffin quickly appears at the bottom of the stairs. “Right here! Why are you cursing at me?”

    “Does it concern you that your daughter’s just run away from home?”

    Mr. Griffin paused. “That’s a loaded question.” **  
**

* * *

     Naturally, Mr. and Mrs. Griffin called the police. Captain Kane was the one to show up, and Mr. Griffin was the one to join Captain Kane in the police cruiser to go and search for her. Over the police radio, a weather report is playing, designating incoming hurricane weather.

    “How can we help her?” Mr. Griffin says quietly, almost to himself. “She’s got so many problems. It’s getting worse.” He turned to Captain Kane. “Whose fault is it?”

    Captain Kane hesitated. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But just for the record: ninety-five percent of all runaways return home within the first six hours. That doesn’t do you any good right now. It’s just a statistic—but in all likelihood Clarke’s probably hiding in the closet at her best friend’s house playing Chinese Checkers at this very moment, as we speak.”

    “She doesn’t have any friends,” Mr. Griffin said.

    It was silent between the two men for only a moment. “How’s Abby?” Captain Kane asked.

    “How’s Abby?” Mr. Griffin repeated incredulously.

    “Mrs. Griffin, I mean,” Captain Kane corrected himself.

    “I don’t understand.” Mr. Griffin turned to face Captain Kane.

    “Is she upset?”

    Mr. Griffin didn’t answer, instead turned away from Captain Kane to look out the window of the police cruiser.

* * *

    After finding nothing, the police cruiser pulls back up in front of Summer’s End. The minute they arrive, Mrs. Griffin comes running out of the house carrying Clarke’s ‘PRIVATE’ box.

    “She has a pen pal!” she exclaimed as she ran out of the house and Mr. Griffin and Captain Kane headed towards the gate. “It’s very intimate. They planned this together.” Mrs. Griffin showed the box to Captain Kane, who looked inside.

    “Bellamy Blake,” he said, reaching inside and grabbing one of their letters. “That’s my escaped Khaki Scout. His family died.”

    Mr. Griffin removes a watercolor painting from the shoebox. “Holy Christ, what am I looking at?”

    “He does watercolors,” Mrs. Griffin explained. “Mostly landscapes, but a few nudes.”

    Mr. Griffin turned to his wife. “Did she sit for this?”

    Captain Kane turns to Mrs. Griffin. “What’s he say?”

* * *

_Dear Clarke,_

_You have a superb voice. You were my favorite animal in the program, by far. Please, find enclosed_ —

* * *

_Dear Bellamy,_

_Thank you very much. I got replaced as the raven because I yelled at Mrs. Lynn. After that I was only a bluejay, but_ —

* * *

_Dear Clarke,_

_Sorry that your parents are so selfish. Maybe they’ll stop someday. Sometimes people do things without knowing the reasons for_ —

* * *

_Dear Bellamy,_

_You are an excellent painter. Especially trees and telephone poles. Is the girl in the water supposed to be me? My favorite color is_ —

* * *

_Dear Clarke,_

_I accidentally built a fire while I was sleepwalking. I have no memory of this, but my foster parents think I am lying. Unfortunately, it is_ —

* * *

_Dear Bellamy,_

_I am in trouble again because I threw a rock through the window. My mother still has glass in her hair. Also_ —

* * *

_Dear Clarke,_

_I have been trying very hard to make friends, but I feel people do not like my personality. In fact, I can understand why they might_ —

* * *

_Dear Bellamy,_

_Now I am getting suspended because I got in a fight with Molly. She says I go berserk. Our principal is against me. Why do_ —

* * *

_Dear Clarke,_

_I know your parents hurt your feelings, but they still love you. That is more important. If they_ —

* * *

_Dear Bellamy,_

_I do think you should think of their faces every day, even if it makes you sad. It is too bad they did not leave you more pictures of themselves. Can you_ —

* * *

_Dear Clarke,_

_Here is my plan._

* * *

_Dear Bellamy,_

_My answer is yes._

* * *

_Dear Clarke,_

_When?_

* * *

  _Dear Bellamy,_

_Where?_

* * *

_Dear Clarke,_

_Walk four hundred yards due north from your house to the dirt path which has not got any name on it. Turn right and follow to the end. I will meet you in the meadow._

 


	3. September 4, 1965

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This would've been up sooner, but as I was slammed with homework this past week, and yesterday was my birthday, so I couldn't work on it. Also, there was a continuity error in the movie about how many days it had been so I had to change some things and add an extra chapter.

_September 4, 1965_

    Captain Kane’s police cruiser is parked in the meadow, which has now been roped off and is being searched. Captain Kane, Mr. and Mrs. Griffin, Troop 55, and Becky the operator are all present. Mr. Griffin has two black eyes, and the upper half of his face is purple and swollen. Becky and Scout Master Sinclair stand off to the side, speaking in low tones.

    “What happened to him?” Scout Master Sinclair whispered.

    “I don’t know,” Becky admitted. “I think he went searching in the dark.”

    Mr. Griffin hears this, and slowly approaches them. “She stole the batteries out of my flashlight,” he explained. Clarke had indeed taken the batteries out of his flashlight, and kept them for her record player. Mr. Griffin walked away from the two of them, towards the other end of the field. Mrs. Griffin and Captain Kane watch him walk away.

    “I think he’s onto us,” Captain Kane says, almost inaudibly.

    “Of course he is,” Mrs. Griffin responded immediately.

    “Of course he is?”

    “Of course he is.”

    “Why aren’t we worried about that?”

    “I am.”

    “Well, I didn’t know. Or, anyway, I thought maybe I was wrong.” Captain Kane paused. “Did you hit him?”

    “No, he fell in a ditch.”

    “Hey!” Atom yelled from the middle of the meadow. “Look at this!” The boy held up a small cloth flag. The flag from Bellamy’s canoe; he must’ve dropped it while he and Clarke were leaving the meadow. “I think it’s a clue!”

    The rest of the search party headed towards the boy, crowding around him. They examined the flag. Atom handed the flag to Scout Master Sinclair.

    “That’s our flag,” Scout Master Sinclair confirmed. “They were definitely here.”

    “All right. We know they’re together,” Captain Kane said. “We know they’re within a certain radius of this spot. I’m declaring the case with the county right now. Until help arrives,” he turned to the Scouts of Troop 55, “I’m deputizing the little guy, the skinny one, and the boy with the floppy hair to come with me in the station wagon. Sinclair, you drop in and head up river with the rest of your troop, then split up on foot. Becky, call Jed and tell him to circle over this end of the island and fly low." **  
**

* * *

    Across from Bellamy and Clarke’s campsite, Clarke watches the mail plane fly overhead through her binoculars. She and Bellamy are crouched behind a tree. She lowers her binoculars, and sees several members of Troop 55 searching the campsite across the way from them. One of them finds something, and waves the others over to look at it.

    “They found the campfire,” Clarke commented.

    “Damn,” Bellamy swore. “I should’ve put more pine needles on it.” He rises from his crouched position. “Let’s go. We’re almost there.”

    Both of them gathered their things, and headed down the trail Bellamy was leading her. Their hike was mostly silent, though Bellamy would occasionally tell Clarke to watch her step. For the most part, she mostly followed in Bellamy’s footsteps. Bellamy was on high alert, carrying his air rifle and looking left and right every time he heard a noise. Finally, they reached a clearing, and that’s when they spotted them. The Scouts of Troop 55. Bellamy stopped, holding out his arm to stop Clarke from going forward.

    They heard a rev of a motorbike engine, and then Murphy came into view, most of his head blocked from view by the helmet he was wearing. He stopped the bike in the center of the clearing, and then pulled the helmet from his head. He was staring at Bellamy.

    “What do you creeps want?” Bellamy asked.

    “We’re looking for you,” Murphy answered.

    “Why?”

    “Because you’re a fugitive.”

    “No, I’m not. I quit the Khaki Scouts.”

    “Well, it doesn’t matter anyway. You don’t have that authority. We’ve been deputized.” Murphy looked side to side at the others before turning his gaze back to Bellamy. “Now, are you gonna come along peacefully or not?”

    Bellamy pauses, pursing his lips. “Listen to some reason: I don’t like you. You don’t like me. So, why don’t you just let us disappear?”

    Murphy paused. “It’s tempting, but we can’t allow it.”

    Miller turned to Clarke, holding a knife. “You know, you shouldn’t be friends with him?”

    Clarke furrowed her eyebrows. “Why not?” she asked, slightly offended.

    “Because he’s crazy,” Miller said simply.

    “Maybe you just don’t know him.”

    “Actually, we know him a lot better than you,” Murphy argued. “He’s emotionally disturbed because his family died. Atom, tie him up,” Murphy ordered, and Atom started to walk towards Bellamy. Bellamy loads up the air rifle and points it at Atom.

    “Do not. Cross. This. Stick.” Bellamy nudged a stick forward with his foot, not breaking eye contact with Atom. Finn had a bow and arrow pointed at Bellamy, and Miller was grinning menacingly.

    “You’re doomed, Blake.” Murphy revved the motorbike and started towards the two of them.

* * *

    Shortly after, one by one, each Scout came running down the hill. Their clothes were in tatters; the scissors. Last to run down the hill was Murphy, crying out in pain and grabbing at his back, his hand bloodied.

    Bellamy and Clarke stood next to the destroyed motorbike, Clarke clutching her lefty scissors. “Molly’s right,” she said sadly. “I do go berserk.” Her grip tightened on the scissors, the blades red with blood.

    “It had to be done,” Bellamy assured. “When it comes down to it, it was him or us.”

    Clarke turned over her shoulder to look at Bellamy, but by doing so, saw a limp figure about fifteen feet behind him. “Oh, no,” she said, and started running towards the figure. Bellamy saw as well, and followed shortly behind her. Snoopy, the troop dog, was lying on the ground with an arrow sticking out his neck.

* * *

 **Finn:** She stabbed Murphy in the back with lefty scissors!

 **Jed:** Repeat that, please? Over.

 **Captain Kane:** Puncture wound. Lower lumbar. Make room for a stretcher in the cockpit.

    Murphy was lying in the back of the station wagon on his stomach, Scout Master Sinclair attending to him.

    “You’re gonna be okay,” Scout Master Sinclair assured Murphy, pressing a cloth to the wound on his back. “Thank goodness she missed the artery.” Scout Master Sinclair removed a pencil from his shirt pocket, holding it in front of Murphy’s mouth. “Here, bite on this.”

    “I tried to chop him but he dodged my tomahawk,” Atom said from the back seat.

    “Excellent marksmanship. He shot Miller in both arms,” Sterling said. Miller sat glumly in the front seat, numerous small welts covering both of his arms.

    “I guess we’re gonna miss the Hulabaloo after all,” Jasper said.

    “Hey, where’s Snoopy?” Wick asked, craning his neck to look into the back of the station wagon. Snoopy was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

    “Those son’s of bitches,” Bellamy swore, looking down at the dog. “They got him right through the neck.”

    Clarke looked over at Bellamy. “Was he a good dog?”

    Bellamy looked back, his expression stony. “Who’s to say?” he said, before turning his gaze back to the dog. “But he didn’t deserve to die.” He grabbed the arrow, slowly pulling it from the dog’s neck, before getting up and storming off, throwing the arrow down on the way. Clarke paused, waiting a few moments before getting up and following him.

    She walked the way she’d seen him go, looking around for any sign of him. If she saw nothing, she kept walking. Eventually, she did see him; he was sitting on a rock, his knees drawn up to his chest with his chin resting on them. Clarke waited a moment, her binoculars in hand, before she decided to go over to him.

    There was no doubt that he heard her approaching, but he didn’t look up. He stared ahead of him, with what looked like tears pooling in his eyes. Clarke sat cross-legged next to him on the rock, looking at him wordlessly. Finally, she wrapped an arm around his shoulders, and he buried his face in his knees.

* * *

    At the island police station, the police cruiser skid to a stop at the entrance just as both Mr. and Mrs. Griffin arrive, furiously pedaling on bikes. The let the bikes drop to the ground as they see Captain Kane and Scout Master Sinclair manning a stretcher.

    “What happened? Who is that?” Mr. Griffin questioned. “Why is he bleeding?” he follows the stretcher while Mrs. Griffin grabs Wick by the shoulders.

    “Is Clarke with you?” she asks frantically.

    “No, she’s in the woods with Blake.” Wick turns away from her hold and follows everyone up the dock as Mrs. Griffin turns to look towards the woods.

    “Take him to the infirmary at Fort Phoenix. We’ll be right behind you,” Captain Kane instructs as he walks the stretcher towards a man named Jeb, who flies the seaplane. He hands the stretcher over to him, and Scout Master Sinclair lets Sterling take over on his end. “Got him?” once the man nodded, both Captain Kane and Scout Master Sinclair walked towards the Island Police Station.

    “Hold it right there!” Mr. Griffin shouted, and both Captain Kane and Scout Master Sinclair turn to face him. “You’re not leaving this island. Our daughter has been abducted by one of these beige lunatics.”

    “Jake, it’s very clear: the two of them conspired in this together,” Captain Kane said.

    “Don’t worry, Mr. Griffin, she’ll be safe. Bellamy’s got excellent wilderness skills,” Scout Master Sinclair assured.

    Mr. Griffin appeared calm for a moment before exploding. “Why can’t you control your Scouts!?”

    Scout Master Sinclair faltered. “I—I’m—I’m trying.”

    Mr. Griffin removes his shoe and chucks it at him. Scout Master Sinclair turns quickly and it bounces off his back. Captain Kane quickly blocks Mr. Griffin from doing anything else.

    “Stop it! Stop it,” he says.

    “Jake, stop it,” Mrs. Griffin grabs his arm and then slaps it.

    “I do blame him,” Captain Kane says, referring to Scout Master Sinclair. “But I also blame myself. And both of you.” Both Mr. and Mrs. Griffin look at each other. “With all due respect, you can’t let your children stab people.”

    “What are you talking about?” Mrs. Griffin asks, confused.

    “She’s violent, Mrs. Griffin. It’s assault.” Scout Master Sinclair motions to Murphy, who’s laying on the stretcher, ready to be loaded into the seaplane.

    “Are you a lawyer?” Mrs. Griffin asks, coming towards Scout Master Sinclair.

    “No, I’m not a lawyer—”

    “Well, we are!”

    Captain Kane grabs Mrs. Griffin in attempt to stop her from advancing towards Scout Master Sinclair. “Take your hands off my wife!” Mr. Griffin grabs Captain Kane and shoves him backwards.

    “Excuse me,” someone says from the end of the dock. The arguing continues, and at this point everyone is shoving each other around and yelling. “Excuse me,” the voice says again, though to no avail. “Excuse me!” he finally yells, and all four stop and turn around at once. “Captain Kane?” A tall, dark man is standing at the end of the dock. He pauses a moment before continuing. “As some of you know, I taught Bellamy for the Cartography Accomplishment patch. He’s a smart boy, and he expressed a keen interest in the history of the island’s indigenous peoples. In particular, I recall his fascination with the idea of retracing the original path of the old Treikrew harvest migration.”

    Captain Kane, Scout Master Sinclair, and Mr. and Mrs. Griffin look back and forth at one another blankly.

    The man holds out his hands. “What I’m getting at is this,” he says. “I think I know where they’re going.” The man reaches into his pocket and removes a small map of the island. On it, circled, are the words ‘Mile 3.25 Tidal Inlet’.

* * *

    That same afternoon, on the shore of a beach, Clarke’s record player sits, playing a record for its two listeners. Both Clarke and Bellamy are standing on either side of a sign that reads ‘Mile 3.25 Tidal Inlet’.

    “This is our land!” Bellamy yells.

    “Yes it is!” Clarke yells after him.

    Both of them yell and run along the shore of the beach. On opposite sides of the shore, there are two large rocks. Clarke runs to one, while Bellamy runs to the other. They stand atop them, look at one another from across the tide.

    “Let’s jump!” Bellamy yells.

    Clarke nodded, and began taking off her socks and shoes. Bellamy did the same, tossing his cap to the side, and throwing his shoes back over his head. Clarke neatly placed her shoes and binoculars on the rock, before looking up at Bellamy.

    “On three!” he yelled.

    “Onetwothree!” Clarke yelled in quick succession, and both of them jumped from their respective rocks.

* * *

    Later that afternoon, Clarke’s dress and socks as well as Bellamy’s Troop uniform were hanging on a clothesline that Bellamy had fashioned. Anything that wasn’t hanging on the clothesline, they still wore. Clarke was posing on the shore while Bellamy painted her. He was still wearing a wet t-shirt and his cap, which he’d had to go and look for after throwing it before jumping.

    “I like it here, but I don’t like the name,” Clarke commented.

    “Me neither,” Bellamy agreed.

    “‘Mile 3.25 Tidal Inlet’. It’s got no ring to it.”

    “Let’s change it,” Bellamy decided. “What should it be?”

    “Let me think for a minute.”

* * *

    Clarke sat on the rock she’d jumped from, reading a book. Her socks had dried, so she was wearing them, but the dress was still damp, so it was still hanging from the clothesline. She was so immersed in the book that she didn’t hear Bellamy approaching.

    “I made you some jewelry,” he said, and Clarke looked up. Bellamy was holding two fishhooks, one in each hand, with shimmering, opalescent beetles attached to them. “Are your ears pierced?”

    The answer, Bellamy later found out, was no. He’d figured it out shortly after, when both of them were sitting in the tent, and he was forcing a fish hook through her right ear as she cried. A stream of blood ran from her ear down her neck, and Bellamy winced guiltily. “Finished,” he said, holding his hands away from the piercing. He grabbed a small hand mirror and handed it to her, which she took and looked at the earring.

    “It’s pretty,” she said, and then looked at Bellamy with tear-filled blue eyes. “Do the other one.”

* * *

    Clarke watched a swan across the way through her binoculars. She and Bellamy were perched on top of a large rock, giving them a view of their campsite.

    “Why do you always use binoculars?” he asked, and Clarke turned to him. She’d woven daisies into his thick black hair, as well as her own.

    “It helps me see things closer, even if they’re not very far away,” she explained. “I pretend it’s my magic power.”

    “That sounds like poetry,” Bellamy commented. “Poems don’t always have to rhyme, you know. They’re just supposed to be creative.” They both briefly looked back at the campsite before turning back to one another. “So… what do you wanna be when you grow up?”

    “I don’t know. I wanna go on adventures, I think. Not get stuck in one place. What about you?”

    “Go on adventures, too. Not get stuck, too. Anyway, we can’t predict the exact future.”

    “That’s true.” Clarke said, and then paused. “What’s that one for?” Clarke pointed to a broach on Bellamy’s uniform.

    “This?” he asked, pointing to the same broach.

    “Yeah.”

    “It’s not an accomplishment button. I inherited it from my mother. It’s not actually meant for a male to wear, but I don’t give a damn.” Bellamy paused. “I think it was supposed to go to Octavia.”

    “Octavia?” Clarke asked.

    “My sister,” he explained. “After my mother died, we got separated. I would give it to her, but I don’t know where she is.”

    “Oh,” Clarke said, and then it was silent between the two of them. “Do you think your foster parents are still mad at you for getting in trouble so much?”

    “I don’t think so,” Bellamy answered. “We’re starting to get to know each other better. I feel we’re in a real family now.” Bellamy thought for a minute. “Not like yours, but similar to one,” he added quickly.

    “I always wished I was an orphan,” Clarke admitted. “Most my favorite characters are. I think your lives are more special.”

    Bellamy was speechless for a moment. “I love you, but you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

    There was a long pause between the two of them. “I love you, too,” Clarke said genuinely.

* * *

    On the beach, Clarke places her favorite record on the record player. “ _Le Temps de l’amour_ ” by Françoise Hardy. As it starts, she bobs her head to the beat, and then goes to grab Bellamy. She takes him by the hand, and leads him over to the edge of the water. When the singing starts, the two begin dancing.

    “ _C’est le temps de l’amour / Le temps des copains / Et de l’aventure / Quand le temps va et vient / On ne pense à rien / Malgré ses blessures_ ”

    Bellamy does something that vaguely resembles the twist, while Clarke only sways to the beat. Bellamy quickens the dance, as an attempt to make Clarke laugh, and then throws his arms in the air before reaching for Clarke. She steps towards him and puts her arms around his neck, and he places his hands on her waist, and they both sway back and forth to the beat. Bellamy leans in, and kisses her on the lips.

    They continue to dance, and to kiss, until the song is over.

* * *

    “ _The flashlight’s beam drew a moon through the black across the attic and settled on a gap in the base-board. A mouse-hole, no bigger than a pocket watch. Eric crouched on his flat feet and placed his hand in front of the tiny opening. ‘It’s windy,’ he said. ‘Like someone in there’s blowing on my fingers.’ Christy rolled her eyes and sighed a sigh. He’s right again, she thought. Little brothers drive people crazy._ ”

    Clarke is reading aloud from one of her books. This one is called “The Disappearance of the Sixth Grade”. When she finishes the passage, she looks over at Bellamy, checking to see if he is still awake. Bellamy is resting his head on his hand, smoking the pipe. When he notices she’s stopped, he takes the pipe from his mouth and looks up at her.

    “I’m listening,” he assures. “Read on.”

    Clarke turns back to the book. “Part Two.”


	4. September 5, 1965

_September 5, 1965_

    In the morning, Bellamy and Clarke are both asleep in the tent. Bellamy has his arm around Clarke’s shoulders. Clarke has slept in her bra and underwear, while Bellamy wears his underwear and a white t-shirt. All is quiet, for a while, at least. Then, Bellamy hears the sound of a seaplane approaching outside. He opens his eyes, blinking sleepily, before slowly sitting up. Clarke stirs, waking up when Bellamy sits up. She yawns, blinking sleep out of her eyes. Bellamy leans forward, grabbing the zipper, and unzipping the flaps of the tent to peer outside.

    Standing on the shore of the beach is Scout Master Sinclair, Mr. and Mrs. Griffin, Captain Kane, and a few of the Scouts from Troop 55. Mr. Griffin starts towards the tent, and Bellamy quickly zips the tent shut, and Clarke wraps her arms around him. He does the same, seconds before Mr. Griffin grabs hold of the tent and rips it out of the ground, revealing to two sitting in their underwear. Mr. Griffin stares at the sight of his daughter embracing the boy for a long time before tossing the tent aside, and walking away without a word to his daughter. Mrs. Griffin is the next to come up to the tent, pausing only a moment to take in the sight of Clarke and Bellamy. She grabs Clarke’s dress off the ground, and then grabs hold of Clarke, struggling to pull her away from Bellamy. She eventually pries her off of Bellamy, dragging her away.

    Next to come up is Scout Master Sinclair. He reaches into his back pocket and removes and envelope, offering it to Bellamy. Bellamy takes the envelope, staring at the return address. Herbert Sorenson; a letter from his foster parents. **  
**

* * *

_Dear Bellamy,_

_It saddens me to write this letter, but Mrs. Sorenson and I have decided we cannot permit you to return to our home. I know you mean well. Do trust me this is for the best._

_Godspeed,  
_ _Herbert Sorenson_

* * *

     On a speedboat on Black Beacon Sound, Clarke sits next to her mother and across from her father. Her father has been quietly staring at her throughout the entire boat ride, though after a while, finally speaks to her.

    “Be advised,” he says, “the two of you will never see each other again. Those were your last words.” He leans forward to look his daughter in the eyes. “Do you understand?” he says sternly.

    “I’d be careful if I were you,” Clarke says. “One of these days somebody’s gonna get pushed too far. Who knows what they’re capable of.”

    “Is that a threat?”

    “It’s a warning.”

    Meanwhile, in a small room in the boat, Bellamy sits on a bunk, quietly crying. Scout Master Sinclair enters the room, sitting on the bunk across from him. Bellamy wipes his eyes with his palms, not meeting Scout Master Sinclair’s eyes.

    “I’m sorry about all this,” Scout Master Sinclair apologized. “I didn’t know your situation. It wasn’t in the register. How’d you lose your parents?”

    Bellamy looked up briefly with watery eyes, sniffing, before looking back at the floor of the boat.

    “Nevermind, I—I don’t need to ask about that.” They sat in silence again, before Scout Master Sinclair opened his mouth to speak. “I wish we would’ve had time to perform an inspection back there. On the beach. I would’ve given you a ‘commendable’. That was one of the best pitch campsites I’ve ever seen. Honestly.”

    “Thank you,” Bellamy sniffed.

    “You don’t want to be a Khaki Scout anymore?”

    Bellamy shook his head, and the silence returned.

* * *

 **Judy:** Hello, Becky?

 **Becky:** Judy, I have your person-to-person from Ark.

 **Judy:** Go ahead, Ark.

 **Captain Kane:** Hello, this is Captain Kane.

 **Social Services:** Hello Captain Kane, this is Social Services. I’m calling in reference to Bellamy Blake, Ward of the State. I understand he’s in your custody.

 **Captain Kane:** That’s correct.

 **Social Services:** What is his condition? Has he suffered any injuries or trauma of any kind?

 **Captain Kane:** He’s fine.

 **Social Services:** Very good. How do I get to you?

 **Captain Kane:** The fastest way would be seaplane. Jed can bring you with the mail.

 **Social Services:** I’ll come tomorrow morning if that’s acceptable to you. Is someone able to provide reasonable care and nourishment for the boy until that time?

 **Captain Kane:** Uh huh.

 **Social Services:** Is that a yes?

 **Captain Kane:** Uh huh.

 **Social Services:** Very good. I’ll contact you again before the end of the day.

 **Captain Kane:** Wait a second.

 **Social Services:** Yes?

 **Captain Kane:** Social Services?

 **Social Services:** Captain Kane?

 **Captain Kane:** What’s gonna happen to him?

 **Social Services:** Well, normally we’d try to place him in another foster home, but that option is no longer available to us in my opinion, due to his case history. Which means he’ll go to juvenile refuge.

 **Scout Master Sinclair:** What does that mean? Is that an orphanage?

 **Social Services:** Who is speaking?

 **Scout Master Sinclair:** This is Scout Master Sinclair.

 **Social Services:** Right, an orphanage. But the first step is the admissions panel that requires a psychological evaluation to determine whether or not the boy is a candidate whether or not the boy is a candidate for institutional treatment or electroshock therapy.

 **Captain Kane:** Excuse me, shock therapy? Why would that be called for? He’s not violent!

 **Social Services:** The report describes an assault with scissors.

 **Scout Master Sinclair:** That was the girl!

 **Captain Kane:** That was the girl that did that!

 **Social Services:** Well, maybe she needs help, too. But that’s not our job. Okay?

 **Captain Kane:** Okay.

* * *

    At Summer’s End, Clarke sat silently in the bathtub while her mother poured water over her head. Though Clarke was refusing to speak to her mother, that didn’t stop her mother from trying to have a conversation.

    “I do know what you’re feeling, Clarke. I have moments myself where I say, ‘What am I doing here? Who made this decision? How could I allow myself to do something so stupid—and why is it still happening? We women are more emotional—”

    “I hate you,” Clarke interrupted.

    “Don’t say hate.”

    “Why not? I mean it.”

    “You think you mean it, in this moment. You’re trying to hurt me.”

    “Exactly.” Clarke turned to her mother, giving her a cold stare. “I know what you do with that sad, dumb policeman.”

    Clarke’s mother opened her mouth, attempting to find the words to say, but couldn’t. She is clearly taken aback; she leans away from the tub, putting on a straight face. “He’s not dumb,” she defends, and Clarke turns away from her mother. “But I guess he is kind of sad. Anyway, we shouldn’t discuss that, it’s not appropriate to even acknowledge what I just said.” Mrs. Griffin wadded up a wash cloth in her hand, and then looking down to see the ‘Coping with the Very Troubled Child’ pamphlet sticking out of Clarke’s red handbag. Mrs. Griffin sighed, leaning in towards her daughter.

    “Poor Clarke,” Mrs. Griffin said. “Why is everything so hard for you?” She brushed a lock of hair behind Clarke’s ear.

    “We’re in love,” Clarke said. “We just wanna be together.” Clarke looked back over at her mother. “What’s wrong with that?”

    Mrs. Griffin was still looking at Clarke’s ears. She stroked her hair out of the way, revealing the homemade earrings Bellamy had crafted for Clarke. “Oh my God,” Mrs. Griffin said. “How’re we gonna get these fish hooks out?”

* * *

    Captain Kane and Bellamy are sitting at the kitchen table in his trailer. Bellamy has a nearly-empty glass of milk, while Captain Kane is cooking hot dogs on a skillet on the stove. Bellamy is speaking to him while he does this.

    “I admit we knew we’d get in trouble. That part’s true. We knew people would be worried, and we still ran away, anyway—but something also happened which we didn’t do on purpose. When we first met each other, something happened to us.”

    “That’s very eloquent,” Captain Kane commented over his shoulder. “I can’t argue against anything you’re saying. But then again, I don’t have to, because you’re twelve years old.” Captain Kane grabbed a beer and headed over to the table, dropping a hot dog onto Bellamy’s plate. He sat across from Bellamy, sighing. “Let’s face it. You’re probably a much more intelligent person than I am. In fact, I guarantee it. But even smart kids stick their finger in an electrical socket sometimes.”

    Bellamy nodded, considering this.

    “It takes time to figure things out. It’s been proven by history: all mankind makes mistakes. It’s our job to try and protect you from making the dangerous ones if we can.” Captain Kane rose the beer to drink from it, before stopping and holding it out to Bellamy. “You want a slug?”

    Bellamy hesitated, before picking up his glass of milk and dumping the remainder into an ash tray. He held the glass out to Captain Kane, who filled it with a small amount of beer. Bellamy rose his glass to Captain Kane, before bringing it to his lips and taking a drink.

    “What’s your rush?” Captain Kane asked. “You got your whole life in front of yourself. Ahead of you, I mean.”

    “Maybe so,” Bellamy said. “Anyway, you’re a bachelor.”

    “So are you.”

    “That’s true,” Bellamy said. “Did you love someone ever?”

    Captain Kane nodded. “Yes I did.”

    “What happened?”

    “She didn’t love me back.”

    “Ah,” Bellamy said in understanding, nodding his head.

    “I’m sorry for your loss,” Captain Kane said, after a pause. “Anyway, that’s what you’re supposed to say.” Captain Kane picked up his beer and filled Bellamy’s glass some more.

* * *

_Scout Master’s log. September fifth._

* * *

    Instead of continuing, Scout Master Sinclair switches off the ticker tape. He brings his cigarette to his lips and takes a long drag.

    In the Troop tree house, the Scouts sit around a table, playing cards. They are talking amongst themselves about Bellamy’s situation.

    “I heard he’s going to reform school,” Wick says.

    “I heard they’re gonna take out a piece of his brain and send him to an insane asylum,” Miller says.

    “I like his girl,” Wells says.

    “She’s too scruffy for me,” Jasper comments.

    “Supposedly, they got to third base,” Atom says.

    “That’s not true. He just felt her up,” Finn says.

    “Over-shirt or under-shirt?” Wells asks.

    Sterling, on the deck, slams his fists on the railing. “Damn us!” he says, and then turns slowly to face the Troop. “It’s none of our business,” as he says it, the railing detaches from the tree house and falls to the ground, landing with a thud. Sterling acknowledges it for a brief moment before addressing the Scouts again. “This Troop has been very shabby to fieldmate Bellamy Blake. In fact, we’ve been a bunch of mean jerks!”

    Sterling takes a seat at the end of the table, looking at the members, who are all leaned in to the table to listen to him. “Why is he so unpopular?” he asks. “I admit, supposedly, he’s emotionally disturbed, but, he’s also a disadvantaged orphan. How would you feel?” Sterling looks each Scout in the face. “Atom? Miller? Finn? Wick?” he pauses, simply for the desired effect. “He’s a fellow Khaki Scout, and he needs our help. “Are we man enough to give that? So part of his brain doesn’t get removed out of him? They were prepared to die for each other out there.”

    The Scouts begin murmuring amongst themselves, shrugging and whispering, before Miller looks up at Sterling. “What do you need?”

    “For starters?” he asks. “Three yards of chicken wire, some ripped-up newspaper, and a bucket of wheat paste.”

* * *

    At the house on Summer’s End, Troop 55 sneaks Clarke out of the house shortly after Mrs. Griffin rides away on her bicycle.

* * *

    “So, in other words, it’s over,” Captain Kane says, sitting on the bench next to Mrs. Griffin. He passes his cigarette to her.

    “I guess so. For the moment,” she replies, taking a drag from the cigarette.

    “Until further notice.”

    “That’s right.”

    Captain Kane sighs. “I understand.”

    “I have to do better,” Mrs. Griffin says. “For everybody.”

    “Except me.”

    “Except you.”

    “Well, I hope you can. I think you will. You’re doing the right thing.” Captain Kane rises from the bench, gives Mrs. Griffin one last look, and heads back to his police cruiser. He starts the car, and the radio begins blaring. Mrs. Griffin follows him, and crouches so she’s eye level with him through the window.

    “You knew this was gonna happen, Marcus,” she says. “I’ll probably see you tomorrow.”

    Captain Kane puts the car in reverse, and backs away, leaving Mrs. Griffin standing by the lighthouse.

* * *

    At Captain Kane’s trailer, Bellamy has taken Captain Kane’s bed while Captain Kane sleeps on the floor in front of the fridge. A match drops down the fireplace at the foot of the bed where Bellamy is sleeping. Bellamy wakes at the sudden noise coming from the top of the fireplace, and rubs his eyes before grabbing a flashlight off the nightstand and getting up to shine the light in the fireplace. Moments after he does so, the end of a rope drops down to the bottom of the fireplace. Bellamy crawls into the fireplace, turning on his back and shining his light up at Sterling, who is holding the rope.

    “Get out of my chimney,” Bellamy whispered.

    “Listen, we’re here for friendship,” Sterling said. “We’re gonna get you off this island.”

    “No, thanks.”

    “Yes, thanks. This is an emergency rescue.”

    “It’s worthless to me. There’s no point. Not without Clarke.”

    Sterling pauses a moment, before leaning away from the opening in the chimney, allowing Clarke to peek down the chimney and smile at Bellamy.

    “How’d you get here?” Bellamy smiled back.

    “They snuck me down the laundry chute and left a paper-maché dummy in my bed,” she answered.

    “Hmm,” he said in approval. “Diversion tactics. Good thinking.”

    Bellamy crawled out of the chimney, and began getting dressed, sticking his coonskin cap on the top of his head.

* * *

    The Scouts, along with Bellamy and Clarke, sit in five miniature canoes in a choppy straight, heading towards the open sea. The only thing visible against the dark are the outlines of laterns the Scouts had brought with them. Bellamy and Clarke shared a miniature canoe, their things crowded around them snugly. Sterling sits at the front, rowing them along.

    “Where are we going?” Bellamy asked.

    “Fort Phoenix. My cousin runs the Supply and Resources outpost for the Hulabaloo. He’s a Falcon Scout, Legionnaire. He’ll know what to do,” Sterling replied.

    “Can we trust him?”

    “Normally, I’d say no.”

* * *

_This is the island of Arcadia, extending far north from Land’s End along the deep water channel that leads to Broken Rock. A low flood-plain separates the beach from the town-ship above. A small, but prosperous community. The barometer reads twenty-eight inches and dropping. Strong winds, as you can see. Already at twenty-two knots._

* * *

    Clarke, Bellamy, and the Scouts crowd around a fire as Clarke reads aloud from one of her books. This one is called “The Light of Seven Matchsticks”. All of the Scouts and Bellamy sit forward on their hands, intrigued.

    _“‘—but I’m not going,’ said Barnaby Jack. ‘I’m running away tonight for good, and this time, I won’t get caught.’ Annabelle whispered: ‘I’m coming with you.’ Her yellow hair, now brown at the roots, caught up in the wind and danced. Barnaby Jack took Annabelle’s hand and pressed something into it the size of a jellybean. ‘Hide this in your socks, and be ready at midnight.’_ ”

    Clarke paused, looking around to make sure everyone is listening. They all look at her expectantly.

    “Continue,” Bellamy says.

    “Keep going,” the Scouts urged.

    Clarke grinned, turning back to the book to continue. “ _He lept at the window and landed in the fresh-fallen snow_.”

 


	5. September 6, 1965

_September 6, 1965_

    Early the next morning, Mrs. Griffin quietly opens the door to Clarke’s room. She sees the faint outline of a sleeping figure against the darkness. She looks over her shoulder, hesitant.

    “Clarke?” she asks quietly. “Clarke, honey, are you awake?”

    No answer comes from the bed. Mrs. Griffin opens the door wider and the figure stirs. Confused, Mrs. Griffin moves the door back and forth to see the figure move accordingly. Alarmed, she flips on the light to see a paper-maché dummy lying in her daughter’s bed, wearing a blond wig with a crudely drawn face.

    Mrs. Griffin’s eyes widened, and she turned over her shoulder. “Jake!” **  
**

* * *

    At Camp Walden, Scout Master Sinclair wakes up to silence. He exits his tent, smoking a cigarette, looking about the slightly foggy camp. When he sees no one, he walks between the lines of tents and doesn’t hear a single Scout. He reaches the dinner bell, and rings it to signify breakfast, but no one comes. Aside from him, the camp is completely empty.

    Scout Master Sinclair sends a telegraph to Fort Phoenix, which eventually makes its way to the secretary of the Commander, who is preparing to shave the Commander’s face.

    “You’re not gonna believe this one, sir,” he says. “That Scout Master on Ark? He’s now lost his entire troop.”

    The Commander rips the towel from his face and springs up, ripping the telegraph from the secretary’s hands. His eyes scan the paper. “Well I’ll be damned,” he says. “Who is this bimbo?”

    “Couldn’t say, sir.” The secretary holds the towel up to his chest as the Commander takes a seat in the chair, holding the telegraph at arms length to read it in its entirety.

* * *

    Troop 55, along with Clarke and Bellamy, is camped behind a fence at Fort Phoenix. Sterling stands on the opposite side, as if to watch for someone.

    “I’ll be right back,” he says, side-eying the Troop before walking away without any further explanation. Shortly after, Finn comes up to the fence, holding a handful of gumballs and offering one to Clarke.

    “There’s a broken gumball machine behind the snack tent,” he explains. Clarke accepts the gumball, and Finn continues to hand them out to the other members of the Troop.

    Sterling has gone to find his cousin, who is manning the Supply Tent.

    “I don’t care how they do it where you come from. You want pop? You want candy? Get some money.” A group of Junior Khaki Scouts turn away from the Supply Tent, looking defeated, as Sterling approaches his cousin.

    “Cousin Ben,” he greets, and the cousin turns to look at him.

    Cousin Ben looks back at the remainder of the Junior Khaki Scouts. “Come back in five minutes,” he instructs, and then reaches to close a curtain on the Supply Tent with a pulley system.

    Cousin Ben leads Sterling and Troop 55 through Fort Phoenix, speaking with them as he goes along.

    “Is this him?” he asks.

    “Fieldmate Bellamy Blake, Troop 55, resigned,” Bellamy introduces.

    “He’s hot. Almost too hot. What’s in the can?”

    “Seventy-six dollars,” Sterling answers. “But it’s mostly in nickels.”

    Cousin Ben holds out his hand. “Give it to me.” Sterling hands over the payment, the nickels rattling on the inside as he does so. “You badge in seamanship?” he addresses Bellamy.

    “Yes, sir,” Bellamy responds.

    “Good. There’s a cold-water crabber moored off Broken Rock. The skipper owes me an I.O.U. We’ll see if he can take you on as a claw cracker. It won’t be an easy life, but it’s better than shock therapy.”

    “Thank you, sir. By the way, where’s the chapel tent?”

    Cousin Ben points a thumb over his shoulder. “Back there, but padre’s home with the mumps. Why do you ask?”

    “I wanna bring my wife.”

    Cousin Ben stops dead in his tracks, and turns to face Bellamy. Bellamy reaches out his arm to Clarke, who comes towards him and puts her arm around him.

    “But we’re not married yet,” Clarke explains.

    “You his girl?” Cousin Ben asks.

    “Yeah.”

    Cousin Ben pauses. “Technically, I’m a civil-law scrivener. I’m authorized to declare births, deaths, and marriages. You’re kind of young. You got a license?” Both Bellamy and Clarke shake their heads. “I can’t offer you a legally binding union. It won’t hold up in the state, the county, or, frankly, any courtroom in the world due to your age, lack of license, and failure to get parental consent—but the ritual does carry a very important moral weight within yourselves. You can’t enter into this lightly. Look into my eyes. Do you love each other?”

    “Yes, we do,” Clarke responds immediately.

    “Think about what I’m saying. Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

    “Yes, we are,” Clarke says immediately.

    “You’re not listening to me. Let me rephrase it—”

    “We’re in a hurry.”

    “Are you chewing gum?” Cousin Ben realizes. “Spit out the gum, sister,” Cousin Ben holds out his hand and Clarke spits her gum into it. “In fact, everybody,” Cousin Ben goes around, individually making each person spit out their gum, before throwing it aside and continuing. “I don’t like the snappy attitude. This is the most important decision you’ve made in your lives. Now go over by that trampoline and talk it through before you give me another quick answer.”

    Cousin Ben points over at a trampoline, and Clarke and Bellamy do as their told and walk over to it.

    “We should probably make it look like we’re saying something,” Bellamy says.

    “Yeah,” Clarke agrees.

    “You want to marry me?”

    “Yeah.”

    “Okay. I want to marry you, too.”

    They walk back over to Cousin Ben and Troop 55, and Clarke says, “We’re sure.”

    “Okay. Let’s do a blood test.”

* * *

    In the chapel tent, Bellamy and Clarke are kneeled before Cousin Ben, each with a band-aid wrapped around an index finger. The Troop sits in pews behind them, listening to Cousin Ben perform the ceremony.

“—which we hereby consecrate on this day, the sixth of September, 1965.” Cousin Ben looks up. “That’s the end of the short form of it. Do any of the witnesses have any objections or remarks?” he looks down at Bellamy and Clarke and adds, “Usually, they don’t.”

    From the pews, Sterling raises his hand. Cousin Ben sighs, and reluctantly calls on him. “Sterling.”

    “Can we loan them the nickels?” Sterling asks. “I’m worried about their future.”

    “That’s my fee,” Cousin Ben objects.

    Sterling turns to the rest of the Troop. “What do you think?” he asks quietly.

    “I don’t know,” Wick responds.

    “What’d I just say?” Cousin Ben says. “That’s my fee. I’m keeping the nickels.” The Troop stares at him blankly for a minute before Cousin Ben sighs and slides the tennis ball can full of nickels towards Bellamy and Clarke. “Okay, they can have the tennis ball can.” He offers a clipboard with forms attached to Bellamy. “Sign here, initial here and here.”

    Clarke and Bellamy do so, and hand the forms back to Cousin Ben. He tears off the top form. “Take the carbon, leave the Bible,” he instructs. “Let’s go.”

* * *

    Cousin Ben leads the two out to a dock, where a small sailboat is docked. The side reads ‘Property of Fort Phoenix’. Cousin Ben lifts Clarke into the boat, and then Bellamy, before entering behind them and raising the sail. Troop 55 only looks at the two of them as they prepare to sail off. Once the sail is raised, the boat speeds off, leaving the Troop standing on the dock.

    “Where they going again?” Atom asks.

    “He’s going to work on a shrimper, if I understand correctly,” Wick says.

    “I wish them well,” Sterling says wistfully.

    “Me too,” Finn says.

    The Troop turns to leave, but right as they do so, Wells points out to sea. “I think they’re coming back.”

    Sure enough, the sailboat is coming back to the dock. As soon as it stops, Bellamy leaps from the boat and runs up the dock.

    “Be quick, sailor!” Cousin Ben yells after him.

    “What happened?” Sterling asked.

    “She left her binoculars in the chapel tent,” Bellamy explains as he goes.

    “Just leave ‘em!” Miller yells.

    “We can’t! It’s her magic power!”

* * *

    Bellamy runs full speed back to the chapel tent. He skids to a stop in front of the entrance, scanning the tent but not seeing any trace of the binoculars. The hook they were hanging from is empty. Sensing something, he turns around to see Murphy standing in front of the infirmary tent, dressed and white and holding the binoculars by the strap. He and Bellamy have a silent stand-off for a moment before Bellamy speaks.

    “You killed your dog, by the way.”

    “Snoopy?” Murphy looks concerned for a brief moment, before shrugging. “Well, it couldn’t be helped.”

    “Why do you consider me your enemy?”

    Murphy huffs, as if it’s obvious. “Because your girlfriend stabbed me in the back with lefty scissors.”

    “She’s my wife now.”

    “Congratulations.”

    “Thank you, but I’m saying before then. Six weeks ago. From day one,” Bellamy pauses. “Why don’t you like me?”

    Murphy pauses. “Why should I? Nobody else does.”

    Bellamy registers this before sprinting towards Murphy. Murphy drops his crutch and prepares to fend him off, but before he can, Bellamy has tackled him, jabbing his fingers into the stab wound on his back. Murphy screams, dropping the binoculars.

    “Ow, my God! He’s here! The fugitive! Stop him!”

    Bellamy picks up the binoculars and darts off. Before long, Bellamy is being chased by an army of Scouts out into the place with a sign labeled ‘Lightning Field’. It dawns on him that he’s carrying a tennis ball can filled with nickels. He runs in circles, trying to get the Scouts to wear themselves out. The Scouts slow down, and Bellamy runs out past the Lightning Field and into the trees. He lost them. Bellamy dives behind a rock, covering his mouth to quiet his breath. He doesn’t stay there long.

    “Bellamy?” a voice calls out, and Bellamy hears footsteps.

    “Clarke?” he asks, and turns to see her and the Troop walking through the trees, towards him. Clarke catches sight of him and grins. “I’m okay,” he assures. Bellamy picks up the binoculars and peers through them, finding a fence with a ladder. “Follow me.”

* * *

**Commander:** Captain Kane, we’ve located the missing troop. They just fled camp. We’re in pursuit. They’re accompanied by a twelve-year-old girl in knee socks and Sunday-school shoes.

**Captain Kane:** Standby, Commander. Jed, re-route to Arcadia. Tell Social Services the boy’s been spotted at Fort Phoenix.

**Jed:** Roger that. Will comply.

**Captain Kane:** Becky, notify the Griffins that Clarke’s there. Sinclair, you monitoring?

**Scout Master Sinclair:** Affirmative. I’m on my way.

**Mr. Griffin:** Hello?

**Becky:** Hello, Mr. Griffin?

* * *

    Bellamy, Clarke, and Troop 55 run across a bridge outside of Fort Phoenix. Seconds after everyone is across, a dam below the bridge breaks, and water floods through the break and towards Fort Phoenix. The Troop continues to run until they reach the Church of Arcadia. Bellamy lifts the binoculars, peering inside the building through the stain glass window.

* * *

    Later that night, when it has begun pouring rain, Mr. and Mrs. Griffin have arrived at the Church of Arcadia along with Scout Master Sinclair, Captain Kane, and the Social Services woman.

    “Clarke!” Mrs. Griffin calls, looking around the church. “Clarke! Bellamy!”

    “Uh, they ran away again,” Scout Master Sinclair said. Mr. and Mrs. Griffin turn to look at Scout Master Sinclair. Scout Master Sinclair turns to Captain Kane. “We need to go back out there. I need volunteers,” he turns to someone random. “You, and you, and you.” Becky is raising her hand. “You?”

    “Are you alright?” Becky asks.

    “Of course I am.”

    Captain Kane looks around the church, noticing the children dressed as animals from the Nuye’s Flude play. One of them is holding a pair of binoculars and watching the adults. Another has a coonskin cap sitting in front of him, which he quickly grabs and hides from view.

    The door to the church opens, and Social Services enters along with Jed.

    “Where’s the boy?” she asks.

    “We don’t know yet,” Captain Kane says.

    “That’s not acceptable.”

    “What do you want me to say, lady?” he asks. Then, to no one in particular, “Somebody get Jed a cup of coffee.”

    Social Services approaches Captain Kane. “You’re Captain Kane.”

    “That’s correct.”

    “I am Social Services, I remanded to boy to your personal custody. You’re responsible for his personal safety, and he’s now missing.” She goes over to Scout Master Sinclair. “Scout Master Sinclair, I presume?”

    “Yes, ma’am,” he responds.

    “Your reputation precedes you. You two are the most appallingly incompetent custodial guardians Social Services has _ever_ had the misfortune to encounter—in a _twenty-seven_ year career! What do you have to say for yourselves?”

    “You can’t do this,” Captain Kane says. “They’ll eat him alive in there.”

    “Where?”

    “What’s the name of that place again?” Captain Kane says, aside to Scout Master Sinclair.

    “Juvenile refuge?” Scout Master Sinclair asks.

    “Juvenile refuge,” Captain Kane answers. “Sounds like jail.”

    “Just find the boy and deliver him to Social Services. Nothing else is in your power.”

    “I’m sorry, can we get back to the rescue now?” Mr. Griffin interrupts.

    “Clarke’s still out there,” Mrs. Griffin adds.

    “Who are you?” Social Services frowns.

    “Jake and Abby Griffin. Their daughter’s the missing girl,” Scout Master Sinclair explains.

    “The parents of the stabber?” Social Services questions.

    “I object to the description. She was attacked!” Mrs. Griffin defended.

    “Excuse me,” the Commander says. “I want the details about that. Where’s the Scout knifed?”

    “Right here,” the secretary reaches over and grabs Murphy by the arm, pulling him to the Commander’s view.

    “Fieldmate Murphy, sir,” Murphy salutes.

    “And what’s his condition?” the Commander asks.

    “He may suffer some limited chronic kidney insufficiency. Here’s the report,” the secretary attempts the hand the Commander a doctor’s report, but Mrs. Griffin grabs it and throws it over her shoulder.

    “We don’t have time for that!” she says.

    “She’s right,” Scout Master Sinclair agrees.

    “Let’s go.” Social Services turns to leave.

    “Stop!” Captain Kane blocks their path, holding a wooden mallet with nails driven through it—one of the weapons Troop 55 had used when looking for Bellamy. “Nobody’s going anywhere.” He looks directly at Social Services. “He’s not getting shock therapy.”

    “That’s it!” Social Services shouts, withdrawing a small packet labeled ‘Citation Book’. “I’m citing you for gross misconduct. You are hereby summoned to appear before the board of—”

    “I’m writing you up back!” Captain Kane yanks a yellow pad labeled ‘Boating Violations’ from his pocket. “Be notified that you stand accused of mistreatment and—”

    “What are you talking about!?” Social Services screams.

    “I won’t let you do it!”

    “Look!” Murphy interrupts, pointing up at the choir loft. There are Clarke and Bellamy, along with the rest of Troop 55, in disguise as animals from the Nuye’s Flude play. Seconds after they are discovered, the power goes out and the church goes dark. When it kicks back on, Bellamy and Clarke aren’t there.

    “They’re gone,” Captain Kane says in amazement.

    “Who?” Mr. Griffin asks, confused.

    “Clarke?” Mrs. Griffin asks, uncertain.

    “Where’d they go? Answer me!” Captain Kane yells up to the Scouts. Sterling hesitates before pointing up at a trap door, leading to the roof.

    Captain Kane climbs up to the roof, where Bellamy and Clarke are making their way to the steeple in the pouring rain.

    “Halt! Stop!” Captain Kane calls after them, shimmying along the edge of  the roof. Before he leaves, he is handed rope and a walkie talkie by Scout Master Sinclair. “Where are you going? What are you doing? Come down!” Captain Kane calls after them. He stops to tie the rope around himself, and then around the gutter. “Social Services, do you read me?”

* * *

    Bellamy and Clarke stick close to the wall of the steeple. They remove their masks, and toss them down into the floodwater below. Bellamy puts his cap back on his head, and Clarke turns to him.

    “We might have to swim for it,” she says.

    “How deep is it?” he asks. “I didn’t bring my lifejacket.”

    “I don’t know,” Clarke admits. “But if it’s too shallow, we’ll break our necks anyway.” Clarke offers her hand. “Hang on to me.”

    Bellamy takes it. “Okay.”

* * *

    “No, I’m not married, but I’m a police officer!” Captain Kane says into the walkie talkie.

    “Application denied! I’m sorry, I cannot authorize that, over!” Social Services says into the walkie talkie.

    “Counsellors! What’s the legal perspective, over?”

    “In this state, I would litigate with extreme confidence,” Mr. Griffin says.

    “I concur.” Mrs. Griffin agrees.

    “Open with article fifteen of the Codes of Civic Jurisdiction.”

    “No party, under any circumstances, shall be denied due and proper consideration without prejudice—”

* * *

    “On three again,” Clarke says.

    “Wait,” Bellamy stops her. “Just in case this is a suicide or they capture us and we never see each other again, I just wanna say… thank you for running away with me. I’m glad I got to know you, Clarke.” Clarke watches him while he says this, and then leans over and kisses him. Bellamy nods. “Let’s jump.”

    “No, god dammit!” Captain Kane yells. He’s scaled his way up the steeple and is hugging the wall. He holds out the walkie talkie. “Tell him, over!”

    “Captain Kane is willing to assume the responsibility of foster parenthood,” Social Services says into the walkie talkie.

    “He wants you to live with him!” Scout Master Sinclair yells to them.

    “Is this acceptable to you, Mr. Blake?” Social Services asks.

    Bellamy looks up at Captain Kane. “What do you think, pal?” Captain Kane asks. Bellamy then looks over at Clarke, who nods, giving her approval. Bellamy grabs Captain Kane’s hand. Captain Kane holds the walkie talkie to his mouth. “We’re coming down. Over and out.”

 


	6. October 10, 1965

_October 10, 1965_

_The Black Beacon storm was considered by the U.S. department of inclement weather to be the region’s most destructive meteorological event of the second half of the twentieth century. It lingered through six high-tides and inundated the islands with punishing winds and extreme high waters. On Arcadia, powerful surges broke the arcade boardwalk and demolished the village bandstand and casino. **  
**_

* * *

_Scout master’s log. October tenth. Reconstruction continues increasingly ahead of schedule, which I attribute to a particularly robust esprit de corps among the troop. The latrine, however, does continue to present—_

* * *

    “Excuse me, sir?” Sterling interrupts Scout Master Sinclair’s log.

    “You got that new recruit?” Scout Master Sinclair asks, covering the microphone.

    “Yes, sir.”

    “What’s his rank?”

    “He doesn’t have one.”

    “Pigeon scout. Let’s get him a patch.”

* * *

_The coastal areas of Ark were battered and changed forever. Mile 3.25 Tidal Limit was erased from the map. But harvest yields the following autumn far exceeded any previously recorded, and the quality of the crops was said to be extraordinary._

* * *

    At Summer’s End, Clarke is reading while the record player plays in the background. Bellamy sits at an easel across the room, painting quietly. He is now wearing a uniform labeled ‘Island Police’.

    “Clarke! Dinner!” Mrs. Griffin calls from downstairs.

    “Don’t make us ask twice!” Mr. Griffin calls after her.

    Clarke sets her book down and Bellamy leaves his easel, heading over to the window. He opens it, and slides out. Clarke crouches down, looking out the window, and Bellamy pops up, at eye level with her. He grins at her.

    “See you tomorrow,” he says, and then darts away from the house to the police cruiser waiting at the gate. Clarke watches him go through the binoculars, and sees Captain Kane waiting in the driver’s seat. Bellamy stops and looks at Clarke. Clarke lowers her binoculars, blowing him a kiss goodbye. Bellamy nods, and then gets into the car with Captain Kane.

    Clarke leaves the window, briefly glancing at the painting Bellamy had done before leaving: their campsite at Mile 3.25 Tidal Limit. On the shore of the painting, in seashells, are the words:

DROPSHIP BEACH

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I actually finished this. This movie is really quirky and just a tiny bit ridiculous, so if this fic seems ridiculous, that's why. Hope you all enjoyed. Comments, kudos, and bookmarks are much appreciated.


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